Nek minute... Brighton, Olney, Where wine leads me

Somewhat of a time gap to catch up on here. You didn't miss too much, but it's still ended up rather long. So this is more of a 'sit down with a hot drink at the computer' type of update than a 'quick browse through for pictures on your mobile while you sit on the toilet' type of thing. Unless you are constipated. I apologise to the younger generation. And also to those who wrestle with constipation.

I'll get the embarrassing bit out of the way first. While at work, I found myself in charge of directing someone's stupidly large, wanting-to-fall-apart wardrobe up and around narrow stairs, over banisters, just anything to make life more difficult for me. We had 3 of us lifting, grunting, sweating and trying not to gouge the walls and I had us set it down near a difficult doorway so we could reassess the situation. Being both larger and wider than me, I couldn't see around the wardrobe. The obvious solution seemed to be to grip the top of the wardrobe, propel myself upwards and suspend myself in a meerkat type posture, from where I'd be able to see down either side of the wardrobe and plan the next move.

As a young man in my prime and stronger than average, launching myself upwards with the assistance of both my arms and legs is wonderfully easy. Already warm from the lifting, I bounced up merrily, reveling in my strength and grace. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that although there was plenty of head room on top of the dresser, I myself was standing square in the middle of a door frame.

You know that really strong part of the house? That you're told to hide under in an earthquake? I hit that full force, taking the impact straight on top of my skull with my rudely halted momentum being sent back down into my rapidly compressing neck. The "thud" was loud enough to make those in the room and possibly the roof of the house jump half a foot. Only I was privy to the sickening sound of something spinal crunching, much like cracking all of your knuckles at once but louder and coming from my neck.

I landed on my feet, perhaps 2 inches shorter and struggled to appreciate how I'd managed such an idiotic move. Part of me wanted to laugh at myself, but I had to strictly forbid any action that might move my neck. Plenty of pain and reasons to worry, but I could wiggle my toes and so removed myself from the lifting and let things cool down, knowing that until the adrenaline wore off and the pain increased I wouldn't know just how bad the damage was.

Throughout life, I've always found myself physically calm and controlled in high pressure or dangerous situations. My mind speeds up and I can clearly make good decisions without costly hesitation. So there wasn't any unhelpful physical panic at this moment, I slowed my breathing to let the adrenaline ease, but the depths of mental terror I was going through was just awful. I was on the other side of the world, on a tight budget, lifting furniture for a living to bide time until I began several months of bicycle touring, hoping to end by joining a course to train as a wilderness guide. And I had just compromised all of that by the rough equivalent of diving headfirst into a tree. No serious damage was yet confirmed but nor could it be ruled out. I couldn't or wouldn't turn my neck as the pain was still increasing frighteningly. I realised that I really needed my neck. Would it prove a non-paralyzing fracture? Would I be stuck in a neck brace? Months of rehab? Would I have to be medivac'd home? Would I be hit with medical costs? Would I be able to ride my bike home? Who would shift the dresser out of the hallway?

The client was acting in more panic that I, fretting and apologising for owning such an awfully large dresser that her husband had told her to throw out, but she'd insisted on having us drag up here. With most of her belongings still packed away, she became intent on offering me a glass of water. I don't know why she thought that would help, but as she fretted she must have offered me a glass of water about 10 times in under 2 minutes while I tried to insist that I really couldn't risk turning my neck to drink it right now. For that reason I also did not scream at her, "A glass of bloody water?! Are you serious?! Just give it a kiss and put a plaster on it, woman! I'm sure that'll do the trick!"

I did what my dad would have done and carried on working, excusing myself from lifting and directing with my voice and knot tying expertise. I visited the hospital the next day, having had precious little sleep in my pain, but they figured if I'd made it that far I must be alright, why scan it? I was told to take time off work, which were the best pain killers to take and where to buy a really good mattress and pillow. Suffice to say I did none of those things and am mending, but it's slow. Almost 20 days now and I haven't slept more than 4 hours unbroken as being horizontal aggravates it and unless I'm very tired, the pain/discomfort will wake me and I have to grumble through several hours of waking to turn myself and saying ouch a lot. Still... Things could have been much worse and have been for another friend of mine with a neck injury recently. My plans are not unhinged. I'd say I was lucky.

Look before you leap guys. Seriously.

Taken by the client, an hour after impact. Why aren't I looking up? I can't. I'm in a lot of pain.

That has slowed me down and left me stuck at home more than I'd like, recovering between work days, but I've still managed to get out of London a few times to some really beautiful places.

On a whim, I took a train to Brighton where Frances Levy, good girl that she is, took me in on short notice and gave me a tour of Brighton, drinks by the sea, dinner at the awesomely named "Yum Yum Ninja" and a welcome breath of fresh, sea air, which I've really missed while living in the city.

Brighton is a beautiful town. It's full of artsy clothes shops, secondhand everything, great cafes, those incense smelling vegan food type joints, people smoking joints, specialist tea stores, tattoo parlours, buskers, and just a general liberal vibe. Not surprisingly, it's the gay capital of England. It's just really chilled out and a far cry from the busy streets of London.

Brighton Pier. But that's obvious, isn't it.

Frances. Good girl that she is.

Not a skyline that you'd expect in England.

The sun pissed off to visit America. #NOideawhataFILTERis

The Royal Pavilion, Brighton.

What's an Indian palace doing on England's south coast, you ask? Apparently construction began in 1787 for George, Prince of Wales, who later became the Prince Regent. LATER became NOT EVEN A KING! But this was his coastal, summer residence. His batch, if you will. England was getting just incalculably rich off the back off India at the time. It's changed hands a few times since, with various additions being, well, added.

Another place I was fortunate to visit was Olney. Jan Oates, mother of my former-colleague-turned-friend Kate, was kind enough to put me up for a few days where I enjoyed home-cooked meals that I didn't have to make myself, rich conversation and jaunts around the village and countryside.

Olney is famous for three things. Lace, the Newton and Cowper Museum and the annual Pancake Race. Can't say I'm much interested in lace.

John Newton, former slave-trader turned church-boss (I forget the title) is most famed for writing Amazing Grace. He was a pastor (church-boss) for 17 years in Olney before taking on a larger role in London where he was big into the anti-slavery movement. I don't do that justice, but he became a good man and put it most humbly himself in these words, "

Oh there you go. He was a Rev. He was good friends with William Cowper. The museum staff were not pleased with my ignorance on this one. Cowper was famed far wandering the town in an absurdly hideous nightcap, keeping almost a zoo of pets, largely Hares, having an ongoing battle with depression, co-writing the Olney Hymns - several hundred - with John Newton, writing wonderful letters to his friends and being the father of modern English poetry. And you pronounce it "Cooper", not "Cow-per", which the man himself pointed out regularly in his letters. You may not have heard of him either, but perhaps you've heard that, "Variety's the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavour." And I love this line, "God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea an rides upon the storm."

I got to go through Cowper's stuff in his bedroom while a mannequin pretended to be him.

But what's a pancake race? Because that's the bit you're really interested in. Well the old story goes that once upon a time in Olney, a woman was in a panic at home, trying to get her pancakes cooked - as all good women should be inclined to do. But then the church bells rang! Summoning her to an important mass or some such. Reluctant to miss mass, but also unwillingly to let a good pancake go to waste, she ran all the way from her home to the church with the hot pan in one hand, skirt and apron scrunched up in the other and arrived with with a steaming hot, fresh pancake, much to everyone's amusement. ("What ho! This is most irregular!")

She never quite lived that one down. This is meant to have happened in 1445. And every year the ladies of the town compete in this famous running race, pan and cake in one hand, dashing through the town. Although, I've heard much complaint from locals that it used to be old girls doing their one run of the year for a laugh, but as prizes increased and charities became involved the event has now been hyped up and over commercialised, with some quite serious athletes training for the event and quite frankly, spoiling it. C'mon, athletes... Seriously?

Olney. A pretty place to rear sheep.

Occasionally the lakes like to show off. No, like all the time. Arrogant lakes.

And in soon to be news, I'm about to head on an exciting canoe trip this weekend. I received a confusing email a couple of weeks back from Belinda at "Explorers Connect" (see www.explorersconnect.com). It said that I hadn't yet paid my deposit, and the full amount was now due to secure my place, blah blah blah, canoe trip down the Wye River. Clueless as to why I was receiving this, but familiar with the organisation, I had to dig 6 weeks back in my memory and email history to a night I spent alone, but for 2 bottles of red wine and my laptop, drunkenly browsing the internet. It seems that, eager for adventure, I signed up for a weekend excursion paddling down the Wye River in open topped canoes. I must say, I was highly impressed with Drunk Scott. Other people write off their cars or insult their friends. I set adventures in motion. So that's where I'll spend the next couple of days, out in Herefordshire, getting damp.

I'll finish with a poem. I wouldn't usually be so vulnerable on a blog but am fairly certain most won't read this far. It came while I was sitting in Cowper's garden, the museum being his former residence and the garden where he spent much of his time between composing great literary works but also struggling with classic artists' depression. From reading extracts of his letters and poems throughout the museum I had started to feel a strong connection to the man, like I could read between the lines of his writing and see much of myself, my own way of looking at the world, that which I treasured and that which I feared. I pictured his ghost walking the yard and tried to see it how he would have, as much would not have changed since he walked there, stone path and walls static through time. This is what found its way into my journal.

Cowper's Garden

Here I sit in Cowper's garden

By myself yet not alone

Words of his still paint the yard and

Ghostly feet still tread the stone

Here I still see vividly

His battles fought with crushing dread

The peace of plants and wind his armour

While inside his spirit bled

For a mind so complicated

Digging deep 'til trapped in hell

Simple things in all their wonder

Held him steady for a spell

Birds content to sit and chatter

Unaware of start or end

Lend a moments peace from thoughts

With which one can't always contend

Here the seasons come and go

Do they know or understand?

Yet this won't affect their nature

What must come will come again

What of thee, ye mortal man?

Who dreams of glory ever-last?

Yet when thinks of time unending

Knows a fear that's unsurpassed

Will thy petty fretting

Be a shield for what's to come?

Nature will as nature must

For all that's said and done

Yet we were born to more than birds

And though this body will decay

I have faith, from whence it all began

We'll see another day

Then I'll sit with Cowper here

And share how I once shared his fears

And laugh, we'll both, remembering

The dark before the Golden Years